


“His” Birthday

by MinLu



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Fratricide, Gen, Murder, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinLu/pseuds/MinLu
Summary: Belphegor doesn’t celebrate birthdays.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	“His” Birthday

Belphegor had never understood the delight other people took in celebrating the day they were born. In fact, December 22nd just happened to be Varia's resident prince’s least favorite day of the year. As he lazily reclined in the lounge on the ripe morning on his 18th birthday, he frowned uncharacteristically as he recalled the extravagant parties thrown on December 22nd from his long abandoned past.

_A pretty maid fussed over the young six year old Prince’s attire, taking care to comb out tangles in his unruly blonde bangs and straightening his silver crown. He was dressed in a tailored white suit and polished black dress shoes, his ensemble punctuated with an oversized black ribbon tied around the collar of his satin red blouse._

_“You have to look nice for the occasion,” she insisted firmly, straightening his gold embellished lapels, “It’s your brother’s birthday, after all.”_

_Her charge frowned at the oblivious remark, visibly displeased that his pampered older twin was receiving the spotlight. Just hours ago he had staged a petty murder of the grandeur silky red banner hanging in the ballroom, which had read, “Happy 6th Birthday, Prince Rasiel and Belphegor” before it had been brutally mutilated after the latter prince threw an epic temper tantrum over his name being written second. Insulted by the sore lack of recognition he was being given by the embroiderer— she had treated his involvement in the so called joyous occasion as simply an afterthought— “and Belphegor”._

_‘It’s my birthday too,’ he thought bitterly, every pore of his tiny body radiating pure hate for his loathsome older twin. It was already well past noon, and not a single person in the entire palace had bothered to bring the subject up, not even his personal attendants humoring him with simple congratulations, much preferring to sing Prince Rasiel’s praises instead._

_‘Rasiel, Rasiel, Rasiel,’ like an insufferable mantra, all day, all the young child had heard was a painful reminder that he shared this supposedly “special” day with another person: The person he hated the most, with every fiber of his being._

_‘I will kill him one day, and have it all to myself,’ the child resentfully swore to himself, as he had done many times before._

Cursing under his breath as the painful memories resurfaced in his mind, Belphegor absentmindedly wondered why even after _he_ was gone, the spoiled Crown Prince still managed to haunt him— a vengeful spirit of his damned childhood that would never be truly gone. Feeling frustrated, the nobility turned assassin jumped to his feet and hastily left Varia HQ to vent his frustrations the only way he knew how. 

December 22nd tended to be a mysteriously tragic day unfailing to produce a pile of unrecognizably mauled corpses every year in Italy, becoming infamously known for a annually active knife murderer. In any case, locals knew to make themselves sparse on the auspicious occasion, lest they become the unlucky victim selected to quench the killer’s yearly thirst for blood. When the insatiable assassin drowned himself in pools of crimson blood, he temporarily forgot his mental strife as he became overwhelmed with euphoria. It never lasts though, the specter of his first ever kill always returning to whisper its demonic prayer. “Usheshe~ It’s _my_ birthday,” it would hysterically preach. 

For Prince Belphegor, who was no more than a glorified shadow for his identical twin, the day he was born was never “my birthday”. It was only “his birthday”, which was not a cause for any sort of merry festivities. Recalling the royal parties thrown in _his_ honor every year, the blonde hitman found himself stranded in another detestable memory of the past. 

_Though the twins would never admit it, they were inherently alike in many ways, one of which being their preferences, and another being that they mutually despised each other enough to suddenly switch their favorites to be completely opposite of what they might declare prior. If Rasiel announced that his favorite season was winter, then it would be natural for Belphegor to follow suit and wake up the next morning insisting that he no longer enjoyed frolicking in the snow, and that he preferred the lazy warmth of summer. So when it came time to serve the birthday cake that the royal confectioners had poured their souls into creating for the past week, the already quite jaded younger prince scowled at the flavor choice._

_A week ago when the preparations for the highly anticipated party had first begun, the pair of blondes had been confronted and interrogated for their stance on the birthday cake._

_Being the older brother, Rasiel spoke first, “Make a chocolate cake.” It wasn’t really a suggestion. Raised to be stubborn and self indulgent, the simple reply was a non-negotiable order from a prince, never to be taken lightly. However, Belphegor refused to obediently roll over and yield control._

_“No, make a vanilla cake,” he argued, though secretly he had actually been craving the rich, bittersweet taste of a chocolate dessert. He found it insulting that Rasiel had rudely been of the same opinion, so he quickly made an abrupt and drastic change and decided to settle for the sweet, modest joys of the rival flavor— if only because it was unthinkable for the siblings to agree on anything._

_Overcome with a sudden feeling that he may have been more likely to live to a ripe old age had he opted to enlist in the military, rather than pursue his domestic career as a baker, the thirty four year old Royal Chef made a mental note to write his will before he slept that night. Flashing a convincing smile at the already bickering young heirs, and silently sending his family his regards, the man wisely opted to leave before the situation escalated further._

_Now, as Belphegor gaped speechlessly at the offensively_ chocolate _cake, he swore vengeance on the upstart chef who had the gall to deny his princely demands and answer to Rasiel’s instead. The cake did not have a single inch of pitiful vanilla tang, the multi-layered masterpiece covered from top to bottom in dark cocoa frosting, expensively genuine 24 karat gold leaf designs glittering in the dancing fire light cast by the seven wax candles decorating the upper tier of the luxurious confection._

_Despite everything, strangely enough the gesture wasn’t surprising in the least for the neglected younger twin. Because he was a prince, he always got his way— however, because he was the younger prince, he also always had to relinquish his way and step aside for his older brother._

_After all, this was the norm that had been established every year on the twins’ shared birthday, and quite honestly all of the days in between as well. Crown Prince Rasiel was destined to be king, making him infinitely better and more important than inferior Second Prince Belphegor. Scowling, the enraged second prince flipped the shiny dessert platter in annoyance, and proceeded to smash the decadent treat in Rasiel’s smug, self-important face with a satisfying splat. Thick, brown frosting wiped away his irritating smirk, and he roared bloody murder in retribution._

_“You son of a bitch!” he cried indignantly, amusingly forgetting in his blind wrath that they had the same mother. Belphegor gloated in a very brief victory, before their spat devolved into attempting to stab the other’s eyes out using the conveniently available polished and very pointy utensils provided to the notoriously violent princes— for both eating cake, and building character, as many choose to selectively describe the frequent attempted fratricides that must be endured on the arduous path to becoming a better man._

His pent up agony and frustration from that day eleven years ago once again returned with vengeance to torture the eighteen year old Prince. Angrily stabbing the unfortunate local hitman which was pinned down by invisible wires, the deceptively dangerous threads drawing blood from where it pressed against the helpless man’s limbs, effectively rendering him imobile and a perfect pin cushion for Belphegor to attack with misdirected spite. 

When the man’s vitals finally puttered to a grim halt, having lost too much blood while enduring the excruciating pain of numerous wounds, the attacking mafioso ceased his unrelenting storm of jabs and stood up shakily, still descending from the high of murder. Glancing down at his grimy clothes and noticing that the red clouding his vision was actually not just an in his head thing while at the peak of deranged arousal; His blonde veil of hair had been soaked in fresh blood, much like the rest of his body. 

The sight of him bathed in blood, illuminated only by the silvery rays of moonlight was eerily alluring, as he had lost himself in his madness, time becoming a trivial thing and slipping away undetected. Tipping his head back to face the moon, a satiated exhale passed through his lips and escaped into the sleepy night. His serene expression met the glow cast to earth by the moon, forever cursed to shine insignificant refractions of the blinding heat from the great sun— a celestial body destined to be the center of everything. 

But Belphegor was not the same as the cowardly moon. Refusing his inferior destiny to forever be a second place imitation of his other half, he had slain the sun and found purchase in the darkness after its light was extinguished. Prince the Ripper didn’t need to be a charming and radiant royal— he was a dark and powerful mafiosi. Breaking into maniacal laughter which shattered the tranquil silence and filled the air with the promise of bloodshed, Belphegor relished in the recollection of his last birthday at the palace. 

_A blonde haired prince grinned down at the gory corpse of his older brother, soaking in a puddle of crimson blood which gushed from the deep gashes which crisscrossed across his pale flesh. Prince Belphegor stood isolated in a wrecked ballroom, the grandeur of the once extravagant hall tainted by the eerie scarlet that stained the walls and floor. Remains of a grandeur celebration were strewn about in ruins: a tattered banner, a smashed cake, and scorned gifts, all labeled “For Prince Rasiel” in cursive, though the tags were no longer legible as the words had been painted over with red._

_“Ushishishi~” his sinister giggles echoed off the walls, “Aaahh, so much… ahh! So much blood!” Stumbling around in a euphoric stupor, Belphegor examined his open palms, which had been drenched in the red of his brother’s royal blood. Finally collecting himself enough to form a complete sentence, he leered at the face of his twin, undeniably similar to his own, and said his final goodbyes, “I win.”_

_Second Prince Belphegor_ ’s eighth birthday never belonged to him, just as every birthday before hadn’t either. Lazily banishing the horrible taunts which haunted him, a cheshire smile spread across his features. Today was the birthday of _Prince the Ripper_ , which he announced into the night, as if a challenge to his long defeated rival, “ _My_ birthday.”

**Author's Note:**

> It’s no where close to December 22nd but I had a sudden inspiration.


End file.
